The Book of Magic

by George R. R. Martin

  When the minister came home, after a long ride to visit a parishioner, he found Thordis sleeping by the fire. His wife told him the story. “We can’t send her on her way in this condition. Let’s keep her and send word about her. Maybe her relatives will come.”

  The minister looked dubious, but he knew his wife. She had a will of iron when it came to helping people. “Very well,” he said.

  Thordis proved to be a good worker, helpful in the house and around the minister’s farm. She never paused until a task was done, unless wild swans flew over. Then she would look up, following them with her eyes.

  She rarely spoke, except to answer questions, though she never answered questions about her past. Whatever she knew remained locked inside her. No one ever came to claim her. In the end, a neighboring farmer asked to marry her, impressed by her hard work and silence. She said yes, though not with any enthusiasm. Nonetheless, the marriage proved good. Her husband was as hard a worker as she was, prudent and lucky as well. In time, they became prosperous. Most of their children lived to adulthood.

  Thordis always helped beggars when they came to the farm, and she always paused to watch wild swans as they flew over.

  For a while, after Loft drove off the swan, he remained happy with his life and the magic he had learned. Then he began to think of the risk he was taking. The magic in the books was devilish. By learning it and using it he had endangered his soul. Sooner or later, the devil would claim him and drag him down to hell. None of the books in the cabinet told him how to escape this fate. In the old days, he could have gone to the Black School in Paris, as Saemund the Wise had done. Saemund had learned such strong magic that the devil had no power over him. But nothing had been heard of the school for centuries. It must be gone.

  He knew only one other way to control the devil. Bishop Gottskalk the Cruel was famous for two things: his cruelty and his skill at magic. He had owned the most famous book of magic in Iceland, Redskin, which he had taken into the grave with him.

  He had to get Redskin, Loft decided. In order to do this, he would have to raise the bishop. That was possible. The books in the cabinet told him how. However, for safety, he had to have an assistant, someone to ring the church bells if Loft was in danger. The sounds of the bells would drive the ghosts he raised away.

  He had no good friends among the other students. They thought he was arrogant and overly confident. But there was one student who tried to be his friend: a lanky, clumsy lad with spots on his face. Most people called him Spotty Trausti. Not the best choice for an assistant, but the only one Loft had.

  Loft invited Trausti for a walk. Standing by a stream on a mild summer day, he explained his problem. He needed to raise the ghost of Bishop Gottskalk and get Redskin from him. But he couldn’t do this without help.

  “But why do you need the book?” Trausti asked.

  To perfect his knowledge, Loft replied. With the information in the book, he could become an important person in the Danish government and help Iceland, which was ruled by Denmark and not ruled well.

  Trausti’s dull eyes brightened. “Yes. Anything that helps Iceland is worth doing.”

  What a fool, Loft thought.

  He explained what he needed. On a full-moon night, he would go into Holar’s churchyard and raise the bishop. Spotty Trausti must be in the church tower, ready to ring the bells if Loft signaled.

  Trausti nodded, anxious to help. “Yes.”

  The night came. A bright full moon shone from the cloudless sky. Loft gathered his magic books and went out to raise Bishop Gottskalk the Cruel. Up in the church tower, Spotty Trausti watched and worried.

  Loft cast his spells, which were full of blasphemy and evil words. A cloud appeared out of nowhere, dimming the moon. Bishops—far more than one—rose from the ground. He could tell from their costumes that some were Lutheran from recent times. Others were Catholic from the early days of Iceland. Three wore crowns that glowed faintly in the shadowy moonlight.

  One of the crowned bishops spoke to Loft. “Give up on this plan, lad. Rely on repentance and living a decent life.”

  Loft was not sure, but he thought this might be Bishop Gudmund the Good Arason, who had traveled around Iceland with beggars. Of course, every farmer had to welcome his bishop, and if beggars came with Gudmund, they had to be welcomed as well. It was a clever way to get beggars fed, though Bishop Gudmund was known for goodness, not for cleverness.

  Of course, Loft did not listen to the bishop. Instead, he cast more spells. Waving his hands, he confessed—not to his sins, but to his good deeds, begging the devil to forgive him whatever he had done that was kind. These deeds were few in number. He had always been selfish and arrogant, though he had loved his parents and his dog, Brownie.

  Up in the bell tower, Spotty Trausti listened.

  Now another ghost appeared, this one frowning heavily and holding a book against his chest. It was clearly old. The cover was dull red leather. Loft could see the color even in moonlight. The other bishops wore crosses, but not this one, unless it was hidden by the book. Loft did not think so.

  “You’re better than I expected,” the new ghost said. “But you will not get Redskin from me.”

  Loft waved his hands more madly, reciting psalms that praised the devil rather than God. The bishops turned their backs on him, all except Gottskalk the Cruel and the three bishops with crowns. They continued to watch Loft, Gottskalk with angry contempt, and the three other bishops with concern.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Gottskalk’s hands moved, carrying Redskin away from his chest. The book edged toward Loft, as Bishop Gottskalk grimaced and groaned, trying to pull it back. A terrible sight! It certainly was for Spotty Trausti, looking down from the church tower.

  Loft reached out a hand, touching the corner of Redskin. The book burned like a live coal. He shouted in surprise and pulled his hand back. Mistaking this for his signal, Spotty Trausti rang the church bells.

  The ghosts vanished, all except Bishop Gudmund. “You have made a proper mess, lad. Consider what you’ve done.” With that, Gudmund disappeared.

  Loft collapsed. Trausti tumbled down from the tower. “Was that the signal?”

  “I am damned,” Loft replied.

  “What?” asked Spotty Trausti.

  “It isn’t your fault,” Loft said wearily. He rose to his feet, swaying. “I should have raised the bishop closer to dawn. He would have given up the book in order to regain his grave before sunrise. I didn’t think.”

  After that he went to the sod house where he lived and lay down on his bed. He didn’t rise from it in the morning or for many days after. It was obvious that he was ill, his face pale, his limbs shaking, and his appetite almost entirely gone. His fellow students and the provost began to think he would die.

  * * *

  —

  There was a minister named Thidrik Pedersson, who lived north of Holar on the shore of Skagafjord. He was famous for his piety and his skill in curing illness. After Loft had been sick for a while and not getting better, the provost sent him to Thidrik. The minister took him in and cared for him, praying constantly. Gradually Loft improved, though he wasn’t able to join Thidrik in prayers.

  The minister often traveled, visiting the sick and dying. Loft went with him, a frail figure who rarely spoke. He was a grim sight for the dying: thin and pale, with sunken eyes and cheeks. But Thidrik was unwilling to leave him alone.

  One day Thidrik was called to the bed of an old friend on the verge of death. Loft said he was too ill to travel.

  “Very well,” the minister said. “But stay indoors. I cannot answer for what will happen if you go out.”

  Loft agreed, and Thidrik left.

  Soon after, Loft felt better. He got up and went to the house door. The day was bright and cloudless. Skagafjord lay flat and as even as glass. Loft felt a need to get out on the water. />
  All the men on the minister’s farm were already out fishing. Loft walked to a neighboring farm. The farmer there was a surly, unpleasant man, but he had a boat, though he rarely went out in it.

  “The day is mild. The fjord is still,” Loft said. “It can hardly harm us to go out.”

  What made the farmer agree? Magic? Folly? A sudden need for the taste of cod, freshly cooked?

  They rowed the farmer’s boat onto the fjord. The still water reflected a blue sky. Flat-topped, black mountains rose along its edges. In the distance was the famous island Drangey, where the outlaw Grettir had lived and made his last stand.

  They baited their lines and threw them in, drawing up cod. Fish after fish went into the boat’s bottom, thrashing and throwing up, as cod will do when they are upset. Everything seemed ordinary, until a gray hand rose from the water and grasped the boat’s prow. The farmer shouted. The boat tilted, and the hand drew it underwater.

  The farmer was able to swim. He beat his way to shore and told his story. Loft must have died, people said. Dragged by the devil into hell for his evil deeds, though no one was sure what he had done.

  This was a good end to Loft’s story, but not true. The hand belonged to a troll maiden, who was walking along the bottom of the fjord, grabbing cod and putting them in a net. The farmer’s boat floated over her. She looked up and saw Loft, leaning over the boat’s side. Although he was thin and pale, he seemed handsome to her. She fell in love.

  Reaching up a hand, she grabbed the boat and pulled it down. As soon as she had Loft, she put him in her net and hurried home. Loft could not open his mouth to recite a magic spell, since he was underwater. Weak as he was, he could not struggle. He held his breath and hoped for the best.

  The troll maid’s home was in a cliff on Skagafjord’s shore. There were two entrances, one on land and the other underwater. She took the underwater entrance, since it was day and she was the kind of troll that turned into stone in sunlight. Moonlight and light shining through water did not harm her, but she could not bear the direct light of the sun.

  Up a lava tube she went and into a cave, dragging her net, which was full of fish and Loft. Once they were in air, he could exhale and breathe. His lungs hurt. He was dizzy, but alive.

  The cave was large and had a fissure in the floor. Red light rose from it. There might be magma down there, Loft thought, though he wasn’t sure. The light made his surroundings visible. On one side of the cave was a lumpy boulder. On the other side was a cow, resting on a bed of straw. At the time, that was all he saw.

  Loft struggled out of the net and looked at the troll maid. She was more than twice his size, with a huge nose and hair like a wet haystack. A ragged shift covered her lumpy body. Her ugly feet were bare.

  “What is this about?” Loft asked.

  “I live alone with no husband,” the troll maid replied. “As far as I can tell, there are no eligible troll men nearby. Therefore, I have decided to make you my mate.”

  This was not a pleasant idea. “Look at me,” Loft said. “I am thin and pale, too sick to be a husband. I need time and care, before I can do a husband’s duties.”

  “Well enough,” the troll maid said. “I have time, and I can care.”

  Then she rolled the boulder in front of the entrance and settled down to make dinner, cleaning the fish and cooking them over a driftwood fire.

  It was a good meal. Loft was hungry. He ate till he was stuffed and then lay back.

  “Are you ready to make love?” the troll maid asked.

  “Hardly. I need rest and nourishment, especially—” He looked at the cow and tried to think of food that might be hard to find. Fish would not do, since the troll maid was clearly able to get these. “Moss cooked in milk.”

  “That can be done,” the troll maid said. She tipped the remains of the meal into the fissure, then lay down to sleep. Soon she was snoring. Loft got up and cast a spell to open the cave door. It was a powerful spell, the best he knew. But the boulder stayed in place.

  “That won’t work,” the stone said in a low, grating voice.

  “Why not?”

  “The rock in Iceland makes its own rules, as you ought to know. When it wants to shake, it shakes. When it wants to release fire and lava, it does so. No magician is able to change its behavior.

  “The same is true of trolls, since we are almost stone. Like stone, we have our own rules.”

  “What are you?” Loft asked.

  “I am the troll maid’s father. As we age, trolls become more and more stonelike. Because I am old, I am barely able to move. My daughter uses me to shut her door. This is lack of respect, but I am not able to respond.”

  “Ah,” said Loft. After that, he lay down to sleep. It might be difficult to escape the cave, but he was determined to do so.

  It was not possible to tell time in the cave. He woke in the darkness and the red light from the fissure. The troll maid was gone, along with the cow.

  “Where is she?” he asked the boulder.

  “It’s night outside. She has taken the cow to graze by moonlight, while she gathers moss.” The boulder paused. “There is another entrance to the cave, in case you are wondering. But you won’t be able to find it, and if you do, you will find it blocked with a stone only my daughter can move.”

  The conversation ended. Loft walked around the cave. There was a gap in the wall, going into darkness. That might be the second entrance. He would explore it later. In another place, water trickled down the wall into a shallow pool. Loft knelt and cupped his hands. The water was cold, with a fresh, stony flavor.

  In a third place, there was a ledge that served for storage. Bowls and spoons were stacked on it, along with two battered metal pots and a pile of neatly folded pieces of cloth: blankets and clothing. Everything looked clean, but ragged. Loft felt his usual contempt for anyone weak or poor.

  When he had completed his circle, he stopped in front of the boulder. “Do you want your daughter to mate with a human?”

  “Of course not. My grandchildren would be half-breed monsters. She doesn’t listen to me. I have told her to go exploring and find a proper husband. There are still plenty of trolls in Iceland. But she is afraid of sunlight and people.”

  “Where do I piss and defecate?” Loft asked.

  “My daughter relieves herself when she is outside. I need little relief, being mostly stone. But you can piss into the fissure and defecate in the cow’s straw. The cow does.”

  Loft pissed and then settled down to think. At length, the troll maid returned, leading her cow and carrying a basket full of moss.

  She milked the cow into one of her pots, then added the moss and cooked it over the fissure. A slow process, she told Loft, but it saved wood. Red light shone on her lumpy face, long nose, and little eyes like chips of obsidian.

  Loft felt horror, thinking of sex with her.

  They ate, and the troll maid settled down to sleep, a ragged blanket over her. Loft looked at the moss remaining in his bowl and thought, If I grow strong, she will demand sex. Better to throw this out. He walked to the fissure, ready to empty the bowl into it.

  The boulder spoke in its grating voice. “If you have food left, give it to me. My daughter sees no reason to feed me, since I am barely alive. But I remember the taste of moss cooked in milk.”

  Loft considered, then carried the bowl to the boulder. Slowly, slowly an arm emerged from the rock. Stony fingers grasped the bowl. A slit—it must have been a mouth—opened in the boulder. The contents of the bowl were tilted in.

  The arm held out the empty bowl. Loft took it.

  A voice spoke behind him. “I almost had you out there in the boat, but the troll woman reached you first.”

  Loft turned and saw a man of early middle age, solidly built, with a red face and a neatly trimmed black beard. He was dressed in good clothes,
though they were a little old-fashioned. His eyes were holes into darkness, and his teeth—showing in the middle of his beard—were white and square. “I could take you now, but you have just been kind. Remember your true nature, Loft! Remember how little you care about anyone except yourself!”

  Then the man was gone, though Loft couldn’t see how.

  “Not a good person,” the boulder said. “Luckily for us, he pays little attention to trolls.”

  Loft lay down and thought. He had two goals—to escape the troll maid and to escape the devil. How could he accomplish both?

  The next night the troll maid led her cow out of the cave. Loft rose and followed through the gap in the cave wall, entering a lightless tunnel. He heard the troll and cow ahead of him and kept after them, one hand on the rough tunnel wall.

  All at once, there was light ahead of him: moonlight spilling into the tunnel. He hurried toward it, but it vanished. The tunnel’s end—when he reached it—was blocked by a slab of stone. The troll maid had led her cow outside and shut the door.

  He beat on the slab until his hands were raw and tried one spell after another. But the slab would not move. He was trapped.

  At last, he turned and felt his way back into the cave.

  “Think,” the boulder said when he came out of the tunnel. “Your magic will not work on stone. What about other materials? They are not as obdurate as Iceland’s bones.”

  Loft gestured angrily, reciting a spell. The cow’s bed of straw burst into flame. There was a brief bonfire, then the straw was gone. The fire vanished.

  “That does not help you, though it gets rid of the manure,” the boulder said. “Think again.”

  Loft did, but came up with nothing. When the troll maid returned, she exclaimed over the burned straw. “What does my Bent Horn have to sleep on?”

  “I did it to get rid of the manure,” Loft said.

  “Well enough, but now I’ll have to gather more grass, and that means you will have less moss.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Loft said.

  “But I want you fat and healthy and able to impregnate me,” the troll maid replied.